A Liar in Paradise

by M H Woodscourt

  The rain had turned to a drizzle now. Crenen and Tall Strong Jerk were poring over several damp papers rescued from the interred tent, talking in low voices, the torch flickering overhead. Dirtied dishes were shoved off to one side, forgotten.

  I wanted to go home.

  The thought dawned with the painful force of a sledgehammer. Images of my parents and siblings flooded my mind. I laid down, buried my face in my pillow, and wondered how any of this was possible.

  And how I could make it all go away.

  5

  Before a Ninja Tribunal

  “Strange Coward Boy sleeping yet?” asked the dread voice of Crenen overhead.

  My eyes snapped open and I realized I’d drifted off to sleep without permission. Not like I hadn't earned it, but I doubted he saw things the way I did. Turning from the tent wall, I blinked my drowsiness away and sighed. “I'm awake.”

  Crenen leapt to his feet and motioned to Tall Strong Jerk, who approached my bed and grabbed my forearms to pull me to my feet. Swaying, I glowered at Crenen and his trusty minion. What time was it anyway?

  “Tall Strong Jerk take you to Gurgling Wet Water and make Strange Coward Boy smell decent, yeah?”

  Now? This late at night? Or had I slept through until morning again? While I tried hard to get my internal clock to function, I was led by the tall man from the tent, where I got my answer. It was dark outside. The sky was clear, moons shining, with very few ninja people around. Did Crenen want to punish me further for lying to him, so he concocted this cruel and highly unusual method? Or was this a primitive ritual and I was about to be sacrificed to save this psychotic world from its untimely end?

  I trudged after my warden until we reached the spring where I'd filled Crenen's flask before. Tall Strong Jerk instructed me to strip, and I obeyed. Now that I was about to bathe, I realized it had been too many days since my last shower back home.

  The water was frigid, but I furiously scrubbed the grime and mud from my skin with a rough soap bar my warden provided. As I rinsed my honey-colored hair I was surprised to discover how much it had grown in a matter of days. Normally it was trimmed to my neckline, and my bangs reached my temples, but now they hung halfway down my face, tickling my cheekbones. I made a mental note to get my hair trimmed as soon as I could—assuming I didn't die tonight in a bloody ritual.

  Tall Strong Jerk had taken the time I used bathing to sponge my clothes, making them slightly less dirty. As I'd suspected, the coffee-colored stain on my white t-shirt stubbornly remained. My pants were in better order, though, for which I was grateful, since the mud had caked on the hems and crusted well up past the knee. He’d had to immerse my jacket in the spring to get it clean, as the worst of the mud and sap had accumulated there. I decided, chilly or not, I would not be putting that on tonight.

  Redressed, I glanced around for my socks and shoes. I spotted the latter in Tall Strong Jerk's hands. He was staring at my shoes, turning them over and over, tapping the soles with pointed claws, then tracing the traction-design.

  “Hey,” I said. As he looked up from studying my sneakers, his red eyes flashed in the bright moonlight. My heart skipped a beat. “Um. I need those.”

  “Your feet must be very tender,” Tall Strong Jerk said as he handed the shoes over.

  I plopped down on a soggy patch of grass by the bank to put them on, when I realized my socks were missing. “Where're my—?”

  The tall man dangled my dripping socks before my eyes.

  “Thanks,” I said with a humorless smile, far from appreciative that I'd been forced from my warm bed in the dead of night, taken a freezing bath in a stream with who-knew-what sort of alien bacteria, and now I was dressing in sopping clothing, possibly preparing for a pagan ritual where I had no say if I lived or died.

  Can you blame me for being a bit upset?

  “Are you ready?” Tall Strong Jerk asked as I got to my feet and stomped my shoes a few times to lessen the squishy sensation. I could only wring out so much liquid.

  “Yeah,” I fibbed, forgetting the lesson Crenen had taught me earlier about the bad things that happened to habitual liars.

  The towering man turned and led me and my squeaky, sloshing shoes back toward camp. I fixed my gray eyes on my feet, watching the laces drag along through the mud left over from yesterday's storm. I hugged my soaked jacket to my chest.

  “So,” I tried, managing a sodden smile, “what exciting wonders has Crenen got in store for me now?”

  “You are being presented,” my warden replied with all the energy of a robot.

  That boded ill. Cold, tired and dejected, I stumbled after the tall man, noting that the patrol around camp wasn't around, including Mr. Ugly. Small blessings.

  We weaved through the clumps of tents and I kept my eyes peeled for ninja men. Everything was still and quiet. Peppermint-scented wind wafted past me, brushing through my hair, shivering up my spine.

  “Why does it smell like peppermint?” I asked as I caught sight of the glow above camp that suggested the bonfire was blazing full force. Nothing like a huge fire in the dead of night to lead an enemy right here, but Crenen didn't strike me as the stealthy, fearful type who hides in the dark—unless he's the predator instead of the prey.

  Tall Strong Jerk faltered, glancing down at me. “Peppermint?” he said, tasting the word like it was foreign—which it was. Duh.

  “Uhm, yeah. That minty smell, you know?” I drew a deep breath through my nostrils to demonstrate. “The sort of cold, biting scent?”

  He sniffed the air like an animal, carefully, head tilted upward. At length he looked back down, meeting my eyes. “I smell nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Huh. Okay.” Which meant either I was delusional (which I wasn't writing off at this point) or Paradise smelled like this all the time, and he had no idea it was strange.

  “Shall we?” He moved again before I could respond. I trudged after him, returning my focus on the squeaking of my sneakers and squashing of my socks.

  We rounded the last few tents before the bonfire and I halted, taking in the massive group of men standing before their master and demonic overseer, Crenen. He was seated on his throne. As we stepped into the generous light, Crenen turned his metallic eyes to us and his mouth split into the widest, most evil grin I could imagine—only worse. I swear my heart forgot how to pump for a full minute—that, or seconds are longer than we think.

  “Quiet Sneaky Thing,” Crenen said, and a black-clad man slinked from the darkness to approach my warden and me without a sound. When I first met Crenen a few nights back, I'd assumed the older fellow with the graying hair was Quiet Sneaky Thing, but apparently that had been another scout reporting to his master. This guy was in his late twenties, at the most, with the same black hair as everyone else. It was pulled back in a simple ponytail—the tamest hairstyle I'd seen yet. He didn't wear any accenting color either, sticking solely with black apparel. His eyes, though, were bright yellow. He was handsome—not in the feminine way of Jenen, or the imposing way of Tall Strong Jerk. If anything, he reminded me of Chas back home; lean, clear-complected, though much paler.

  He was smiling as he stepped before me. Reaching a hand up, he slid a clawed finger through a strand of my hair.

  “Hey,” I growled.

  He blinked his yellow eyes and slid his gaze from my hair down to my face. Set his hand fully on my head, patted it twice and, turning, spoke to the warriors at large. “Short,” he declared, raising a smattering of laughter and hooting from the men, who all watched me with mixed curiosity and hostility.

  I jerked back, out of his reach. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.” I shot a glare first at Quiet Sneaking Thing (who should just stay quiet), then at Crenen, who now wore a neutral expression.

  “Listen, Mighty Servant Men,” Crenen said. He didn't scream or shout, but he had the group's immediate attention. “This,” he motioned my way, so I assumed he was referring to me, “is great future of Paradise. Bring with him only short self and hea
vy bag,” he reached down to his other side and lifted my red backpack up to show the warriors.

  Oh, hey! I’d completely forgotten about it. There was nothing valuable inside, just a bunch of textbooks, but Crenen had taken my bag without permission and that was annoying.

  Crenen went on. “Strange Coward Boy,” —the group found my nickname amusing, judging by the muted chuckles and not-so-muted catcalls I received— “come by Small Wet Puddle, and now we being expected to aid Strange Coward Boy to save all. What Mighty Servant Men think? What thinking of this being Vendaeva?”

  The crowd grew still, eyes flicking from their master to me, stopping, staring, unreadable. My cheeks burned and sweat trickled down my sides.

  Before the crowd responded, Crenen spoke again. “What say Strange Coward Boy?”

  I stiffened, unsure how to respond. What did he expect? Some heroic speech of self-sacrifice? Some inspiring words about how much I cared about a people I didn't even know, who hadn't done anything for me but offer bruises and stale bread?

  I opted to say nothing, turning my attention to the bonfire, watching stray embers float on the minty wind, listening to the crackle and pop of the logs being eaten by the gluttonous flames.

  Crenen hopped down from his throne, dragging my backpack through the mud and grass as he approached. Quiet Sneaky Thing bowed and stepped aside, taking a second to offer me what might have been a supportive grin (or a malicious one—hard to say with sharp teeth flashing). Crenen released the strap on my bag and fixed his gaze on mine. He said nothing, but kept eye contact, daring me to hold still and stare back.

  Gathering my nerve, determined not to let Crenen have the upper hand, I set my jaw and glared.

  We stood like that for a long time. My feet began to ache, and, despite the massive fire, the midnight breeze was sending shivers down my spine. My toes were numb; I even tried to wriggle them but couldn't tell if I'd succeeded or not.

  It took a while before it sank in that Crenen could keep this up a lot longer than I could. That revelation may have saved my life—who could say how he might have reacted had I not finally surrendered?

  Yes. I surrendered. Lowering my eyes; hating myself for doing it; hating Crenen more for making me.

  Crenen seemed very pleased by this and he clapped me on the back, miraculously not scratching me. “Maybe hope for Strange Coward Boy yet,” he remarked, grabbing my pack and swinging it over his shoulder. He sauntered back to his throne, sat, and pinned his eyes on the silent crowd.

  As if he’d been waiting for his master's attention, Mr. Ugly stepped from the throng, bowed, and waited for Crenen's hand to wave his blessed consent. When it did, Mr. Ugly straightened and drew a deep, rumbling breath. Releasing it with a great whoosh, he spread his arms out, as if he were about to deliver a sermon.

  Please let him not be about to deliver a sermon.

  The frog man began, speaking in his horrible, croaking voice, jabbering words I couldn't understand. He threw dark looks and jabbing fingers toward me at intervals, no doubt professing my demonic heritage and that I had no right to storm in here through a puddle and save these people.

  Hey. Who was I to argue? Ugly had a point. And if I could leave, I certainly would.

  Crenen listened with the patience of a saint (oh, the irony), and when frog-face finished, the leader slid his narrow eyes to me. “Strange Coward Boy be accused of Bad Nasty Stuff. Want to defend self?”

  I shrugged. How had I known? “What're the charges?” I didn't want to be here; both Mr. Ugly and I agreed that I should go home. But the fact remained, I was stuck here, couldn't go home, and might as well accept it. For the moment. Because I hated to let the bullying type come out on top.

  “Say you not from Small Wet Puddle,” Crenen explained. “Instead, you from Yellow Sandy Place, come here to trick and make false hopes. Seem you too short for being Great Noble Hero, yeah? Although also too short for Yellow Sandy Place, come thinking.”

  I scowled. “Height has nothing to do with anything.”

  Crenen's grin returned. (It had never truly left, but I was beginning to tell the difference between his neutral grin and a delighted one.) He turned back to my accuser. “Hear that, Gross Smelly Man?”

  I almost laughed outright at Mr. Ugly's nickname. Okay, I did laugh outright.

  Gross Smelly Man had been about to respond to Crenen, but when he heard my outburst, he turned his cold gaze to me, beady little eyes narrowed. Spitting at the ground, he crossed the muddy clearing, snatched me by my shirt collar, and lifted me up, until my toes brushed the ground.

  His odor brought tears to my eyes. I tried holding my breath.

  He shouted at me, still using words I couldn't understand. Nor did I believe I wanted to. Apparently, he was sensitive about his Crenen-name. (Who could blame him? Though I suspected he might have a relatively less offensive reference if he bathed a little more often.)

  I sensed his fist before I ever saw it. For a split second I wondered why no one was coming to my rescue, then I remembered they had no reason whatever to help me. Except if I really was this Vendaeva thing, didn't that make me somehow important?

  Oh, wait. I hadn't sold them on that yet.

  Either way, the fist came charging fast. My eyes closed faster.

  His knuckles connected with my cheek. Throbbing pain bloomed across my face. My body jerked back, but I didn't fall as I'd anticipated, because Mr. Ugly was still holding my collar. Snapping my eyes open, I looked up to find his fist poised to strike again.

  I cringed; one eye squeezed shut even as my other eye watched the fist flying toward me. For one wild millisecond I thought about fighting back, but he was massive compared to me, and I had the feeling I'd only get him madder if I tried to defend myself.

  “Enough.” Crenen's voice rang out across the clearing. The fist halted, hovering comically a mere inch from my face.

  Saved by a demon. Who'd have thought?

  “Fenik,” Tall Strong Jerk said, placing a big hand on the bully's wrist.

  Mr. Ugly spat at the ground again, flung me into the mud, and trudged back into the multitude, never glancing back.

  So much for bathing. My warden bent down and hooked one hand under my arm to hoist me up as I rubbed my burning cheek. It would be a nice bright purple color, come morning.

  “Strange Coward Boy attract Bad Trouble Things like mud sticking to pants, yeah?” Crenen said, his pointed smile as lopsided as his ponytail.

  “Are you all right?” Tall Strong Jerk asked, gently turning me toward him for a better view of my cheek in the firelight. He touched the bruise. “It will hurt for a while.”

  How kind of him to show concern after the fact. “Yeah, it will,” I muttered, looking down and brushing the mud off my pants, only managing to smear it more.

  “Are you really Vendaeva?” a thickly accented voice inquired, reminding me of Quiet Sneaky Thing's presence behind me.

  To cover my instinctive jump, I turned around to face him, scowling. “I don't know. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” he repeated, and I wondered if he knew what the word meant, or if he thought I was stupid for not being certain what I was.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Let him wonder away. I was so tired, my vision was beginning to wobble, and my cheek burned like I'd leaned into the bonfire. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  Crenen regarded me and I shifted between my feet, trying to stay standing.

  “Strange Coward Boy go have pleasant sleeping, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking that as a dismissal. Tall Strong Jerk seemed to agree, and he fell into pace beside me as I left Crenen and his minions behind. “Right.” How could I have a pleasant sleep under these conditions?

  I barely remember reaching the tent and collapsing on my bed. I do remember wondering why I was so tired—aside from recent traumatic experiences (e.g. venomous bites, feminine shawl-wearing men, tyrannical megalomaniac demons, facing a tribunal of sorts, and being clobbered for finding a brutally honest nic
kname as funny as it was).

  I can be so bright, sometimes.

  “He drools,” an amused voice said from somewhere above and to my right.

  “So do you,” another voice murmured.

  “What?” the first voice hissed.

  “Nothing, Master.”

  “He sleep long time. Get watered, yeah?”

  “If you wish, Master.”

  My eyes snapped open as I heard water sloshing into something. Jerking my head to the right with a sharp snap, I spotted Crenen sitting nearby, pouring water from his flask into a large bowl.

  Tall Strong Jerk watched me without expression from his place on the table's far side. The lit torch cast shadows across his face. “He's awake, Master.”

  Crenen looked at me, his mouth twisting in annoyance. “Not supposed to wake 'til we dump water.”

  “I wasn't about to let that happen.” I sat up. At some point I'd been placed under my covers and my hands were freshly bandaged. I glanced at Tall Strong Jerk and lifted my hand, flexing it. He nodded once. I smiled my gratitude.

  “No fun.” Crenen grabbed the half-filled bowl and tossed its contents at Tall Strong Jerk, who closed his eyes as he was drenched, then wiped his face with his green wrap.

  Crenen turned back to me as Tall Strong Jerk collected himself. “You drool,” he informed me, eyes glittering.

  “Thanks. I had no idea,” I replied, wiping at the side of my mouth.

  “Welcome,” he said with a toothy grin.

  I turned to Tall Strong Jerk. “Need a towel?” Not that I knew where to get one, but I felt like offering. Of all the people I'd met in this hellish Paradise, he was the only one who hadn't angered me yet.

  He shook his head. “I'll be fine.”

  I shrugged, then yawned. “What're my chores today?” I had decided to do them right this time, to avoid further embarrassment.

  “Not today,” Crenen said. “Still night.”